


Bedside Angel

by greenotter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU where they're still hunters and angels and demons but there's no apocalypse every twelve hours, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, So basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7005142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenotter/pseuds/greenotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a man who used to be all about adventure, but when he settled down with a family and changed (a lot), he became drastically ill. He constantly wishes for a miracle in which he can rise and be reckless again, but he’s sure that would never happen. Castiel is a man who travels the world, and can light up the room like an angel. He finds himself stuck in Illinois during a thunderstorm, and takes shelter in the house of Dean, where the two chat about life and what would happen if Dean was cured.</p><p>This story has been abandoned... if you would like to pick up on writing it, please talk to me! Thank you. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are many secrets to a bedroom, especially a bedroom that’s been around for nearly a hundred years. I discovered there was a hole in the wall of a closet, but I don’t know where it leads since I am bound to a bed. My curtains shift so that the left one covers the right, which always bothers me because then the light hits me. I can’t get up to adjust them. The light on my ceiling is crooked and flickers every few days, but I am forced to deal with it.

I look around the bedroom, once again noting all these things that define this place. As my eyes wander, someone clears their throat, and I am reminded of the woman who calls herself a doctor waiting for me to talk. I look at Rosie, and she smiles.

“Mr. Winchester,” she starts, but my weary hand lifts and I point to the glass of water that never leaves my bedside table. She reaches over, hands me the cup, and continues as I sip. “Well, I’ve just come here to chat today. You’re taking your medicine, I presume?” My dry lips curl into a smile, and I chuckle.

“If I weren’t, you would have my head on a stake.” She smiles again, and I am envious of her youth. Although I am still in my young twenties, my mysterious illness ages me much more. Her smooth skin is always bright and her hair is shining in the dim light of my bedroom. I can only imagine what it looks like in the sun. My smile falters as my stomach pains me once again, and I turn away, instead interested in the chipping paint next to me.

“They’re still working as hard as they can, you know.” Those words anger me, she’s said them almost every time she’s visited me. I turn to her, with the intent of snapping. When I see her concern, however, I just sigh and reach my hand out. She takes it in her own.

“Rosie, they don’t have time to bother with a man on his deathbed.” Her face falls, and she looks sadder than I’ve ever seen her.

“You’re not on your deathbed, Dean. It’s just something they haven’t seen yet, and you’ll recover. I know it.” Tears form in her eyes, and for once I’m thankful she is an emotional person, because her sadness distracts me from the aching pain I feel in my head.

I laugh, despite the circumstances, and place my other hand on ours. “You have a lot of faith in me. Thank you.” I reach down to kiss her hand, and she smiles. The timer on her watch beeps, and she stands up. I lay silently as she gathers her binder full of papers.

“See you Wednesday, Dean.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, and I cherish it because Rosie is my bridge to the outside world on Wednesdays. I lay for an eternity more before I fall asleep, once again.

When I wake up again, it is dark. I look around me, and I feel a sensation. It’s one I feel a lot; I should just get up, start walking. I would probably only make it to the door before I collapse again, but I imagine that, if I got up, I would take a full breath, and feel no pain. I would stand up straight and walk like I used to, maybe drive somewhere. Definitely drive somewhere. I would go to the market first, and say hello to the young lady with the best selling vegetables on the street, if she hadn’t fallen into a deep depression after her father took his own life. I would go into my workplace and say hello to my buddy who took me for a drink every weekend, if he hadn’t moved away as soon as his wife disappeared.

But then I would leave all that behind and go find my brother, a man I let escape from me when I decided to settle down from a life on the road. I would find him and we would travel the country again, saving people and hunting things. The family business. We would find our old friends again, if they’re around. It would be just like the good old days, before I found a girl in Illinois, and betrayed my family. Before I fell sick to an illness that reserved itself for me.

My smile is wide enough to crack my lips, but when I open my eyes again the color is gone. My brother, my car, the adventures we have is all replaced by darkness and a slight hum of the fan that never turns off. I sigh with half of a breath, and turn over to face the wall, where I pick at the ugly wallpaper and succumb into sleep once again.

When I wake up once again, I can tell it is early morning, and I hear people talking outside. Before all this happened, I didn’t much care for eavesdropping. If I wanted the truth, I knew where to find it. But since I haven’t moved in months, new hobbies arise.

“I brought his medicine for the next few weeks, but since I’ll be traveling, you have to promise you’ll pick them up. I’ll set a reminder on your phone on the day you should, alright?” It’s a woman’s voice. I recognize it as Lauren, the girl I stayed here for. I assume she’s talking to her eldest daughter, Beth.

“I will. You know, I have the memory of an elephant.”

“You have the trunk of one, too.” I smile as I think of Abigail saying those words. She was always very quick with retaliation. Beth began to argue, but Lauren stopped her.

“Look, just put these next to his bed. He will know which ones to take, he’s done this long enough. I have to continue packing.” As the door opens, I quickly close my eyes, pretending to sleep. Beth has always been distant around me, because she is hesitant and unused to having a father figure. She doesn’t want one, so she settles for pretending I don’t exist. I am nice enough to cooperate with her. Before she leaves, I open my eyes to see her uneasy face eager to leave. I wish the curtains were open. I wish it were Wednesday. I try to sleep.

My curtains are open this time, and the sky looks gloomy. It usually matches my mood perfectly. Today I am distant from my emotions, I don’t feel much. It’s Monday, but if I controlled the weekdays, it would be Wednesday. It would be Wednesday every day. I look out the window and watch the clouds slowly shift away. I wish I were close enough to lean out the window and smell the humidity of the thick air outside, or to look down and see all the people bustling through the streets, occasionally on phones or dragging along loud children. I wish I could step on the edge of the window and hold my arms out like wings and feel the calming sensation as I leave the bedroom.

I clear my throat and my mind of the thought before my alarm goes off. I look at the screen of my cell phone and begin searching for the right pill bottle. I think the whole pill thing is ridiculous, mostly because medicine is such a bizarre thing to me in the first place; but also because the doctors tell me and everyone I know they have no clue what came over my body, why it’s like this, why I’m bedridden. But yet they prescribe me any medicine they desire. If I were going to be honest, the only medicine I trust is painkillers and alcohol. The bedroom door creaks open as soon as I swallow two small pills, and I see Abigail peeking her head in. Her hand lingers at the light switch and I nod, looking at the ground. She sits on the chair that everyone sits in when they enter, and we begin our usual staring contest. It’s always her who speaks first, but this time it’s me.

“Good morning Abigail.” She looks at me with sorrow in her eyes.

“I don’t like rain,” she replied, turning her head out of the window. I followed suit and noticed that, despite the sun rising, it was darker. The clouds were more grey.

“If there was no rain there would be no green,” I reminded her. She looked down to the carpeted floor, where her socks rubbed the outline of an old stain that mysteriously appeared one day. My theory with Abigail is that a ghost cried there, but ghosts don’t leave stains. Beth and Lauren say someone had a sugar drink and spilled it.

“We can use water from the tap.” I chuckled, and she tilted her head in confusion. “What?”

“Where does the water from the tap come from?” Her shoulders slumped again, and she looked at the clock resting on the table before jumping up.

“Bye, Dean!” I waved to her as she ran down the hallway, leaving the door ajar. I looked out the window again, remembering old things.

I remember how every other sentence that came out of my mouth was a reference to a movie or a song, and how much my brother was aggravated by it; now I have time to explain myself. I have the rest of my life to explain myself. I remember my sarcasm and remarks towards anyone, not believing in authority. Now it’s just another thing to pay attention to. I do what I always do when I think about the past; I fall asleep.

I wake up to a man standing in my doorway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to the authors of Twist and Shout, a famous fanfiction in the Destiel community. When reading the saddest parts of the story last night, I was motivated to finish this chapter. I also noticed that my story has a lot in common, names, illnesses.. This was completely unintended and if there are any problems I am happy to cooperate with the authors about changing aspects of my story. Although this probably will not happen since my story isn't very popular, to say the least.

I wake up to a man in my doorway.

I stare at the shadow of him for a long time; my bedroom light is off and I can only make out his figure. He’s shorter than me, as far as I can tell. He enters the bedroom and sets down a cup on the table, replacing my empty one. “I see you’re awake, I just came to give you a fresh glass of water.” He turns around and starts to leave; I try to say something but I find my throat to be too dry. He leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I’m bewildered, to say the least. It’s not every day some guy waltzes into your bedroom to give you some water, and then leaves. I run through my thoughts, trying to think of him. By the light in the living room, I could tell he had brown hair and a round face. He wore a large trench coat for some reason, and a tie. His voice was deep and gravelly as well, which was new to me since everyone I live with is female, and I haven’t left the same room in months (besides to use the bathroom, which I don’t think I’ve cleared up. I’m not a Ken doll). I stare at the dark bedroom towards what I hope to be the door and wait for him to return, but he doesn’t.

I don’t want to sleep, so I sit up and lean against a mound of pillows, debating whether or not to take a sip of water. My throat is still considerably dry, but I don’t know the man who gave it to me. He could be a demon, or something. Except demons wouldn’t want anything to do with a bedridden ex-hunter. I decide that even if it is poisoned, I’m a dead man walking (irony intended). I take a sip, but it tastes fine. Setting the glass down disappointedly, I watch as rain begins to fall again, turning into a large storm. The wind howls and it reminds me of a time when I would comfort my brother from the thunder. I’d wished and prayed to any god I knew that I wouldn’t have to tell him the truth about what’s out there, but I ended up making sure there weren’t any demons in his classmates, or God forbid a wendigo under his bed. I wonder where he is now, hunting them down or trying to settle like me. I laughed at the thought; not anymore.

My thoughts are interrupted by a noise downstairs that sounded like metal hitting the floor. My first instinct is to get up and check it out, but as soon as I rip the sheets from my body I am weak again. Despite that, I shouldn’t be in here forever. I stand up and nearly topple over from the weight of my body standing up so quickly. My eyes begin to see spots dancing around in the darkness, and I use the desk to leverage myself. The door opens and I hobble out down the hallway. My feet almost stop by the bathroom, on instinct. I go further. The stairs are complicated; to me at least. But I’ve been thrown around, and I find it ridiculous to be bedridden by a stupid illness. I grip onto the railway as if my life depends on it, which, actually, it does. I go as fast as I can, which is actually pretty fast since I skip most of the steps due to misjudging where they are. That’s about as far as I make it, before I sit down at the bottom, clutching onto the pole. It’s easy to tell this was a mistake. I am exhausted, and can see the kitchen from here. It’s Beth, who is startled to see me downstairs. I give her a kind smile before standing up (quite easily) and walking back up the stairs.

My old view is back, of the dreary bedroom with the peeling wallpaper and the crooked curtains. I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering. It was a moment of adrenaline; that’s what I’m telling myself right now. I can’t help but hope I’m getting better, but I aim to yell at myself and sit on the cold floor, where I find myself foolish for even thinking that. Nothing else has been explained the past three months, why start now? I pick up my cell phone and go to his number. I stare at it, reciting his voicemail in my head. The screen goes black and I feel the urge to throw it against a wall. My head is hung, but now there’s something different.

The man is in the doorway again, this time holding nothing. He walks towards me, and gives me a pitiful look. I despise him. “I am just here to help you get back into your bed.”

“I never want to get back in that bed again. I want to walk, and talk. I want to hunt,” I say before I can stop myself, and hope I can play it off. He doesn’t look surprised though, just hooks his arms under my shoulders and lifts me back into the stinking bed. The sadness wells up inside me, and I can’t wait until he’s gone to begin bawling. In my head I’m screaming that it’s unfair, that it shouldn’t have been me. Outside I am silent, but he stares in understanding before leaving.

I decide he must be a friend of Beth’s before hiding under the sheets and pathetically sobbing into my pillow before I fall asleep for the trillionth time in my life. When I do wake up only an hour later, he’s sitting in the chair with his arms resting on the table. He’s looking down at his hands while he twiddles his thumbs, and I examine his round face. He has bags under his eyes and looks so worn out, as if he hasn’t slept in months. For once I am speechless by my mind instead of my throat and I stare at him for a while. He turns towards me and we make eye contact but he doesn’t look surprised to see me awake.

“Good morning.” His voice is still deep and gravelly and it soothes me for some reason. I look at the clock. It’s almost noon. I don’t know what to say, so I stay silent. “I am Castiel.” He waits for me to respond and I do, very dryly.

“Dean Winchester,” I manage, and take a sip of water. My eyes are sore from crying till I slept, and it probably shows. Castiel tilts his head, and I notice how ruffled his hair is. It’s matted in some places, and sticking up in others; I don’t think he minds. “Are you Beth’s friend?”

“No, she saw me out in the rain, lost. She took me in; she’s an angel, that girl.” He looked like he was about to smile, but looked out into the hallway. “I’m only here for a while, but she told me about you. The sick man who lives in a bedroom.” I stayed silent, not sure if I should be offended by his words; they were true, after all. I stay silent; I’m unsure what I’m supposed to say. Should I start conversation? This man will be gone tomorrow, so it doesn’t really matter. I lay my head back and watch the shadows on the ceiling, long slender fingers that are stiff and shake against the plaster; the branches outside make perfect puppets.

When I first got sick and became bedridden, I tried to get out of bed nearly every hour. It didn’t feel right to be resting when I could be out there researching or driving or hunting, even yet spending time with Lauren. I must confess that since then I’ve grown distant with her, suggesting I leave and go into the hospital but she refused. Lauren is a kind woman, but I am not one for settling down. In a petty fight trying to prove my brother wrong, I forced myself to become one for picket fences and apple pies. It’s awful.

When I noticed I began thinking too much, I turned my head to where my guest sat. He was gone, so I turned away and examined the light bulb, waiting for it to flicker. It did three times, and then continued buzzing to stay on. I didn’t sleep, because the urge to get up and walk somewhere was too strong. I looked at the wall, where I wanted to bang my head against it until someone would run in and pull me out bed. They would tell me to snap out of it and, by those words, I would become strong and healthy again. I wouldn’t take it for granted. I felt my eyes wet and my mind drifted away.

The rest of the day came and went as it always does, as it has been doing for months. I’m laying down again, which I hate so I sit up and swing my legs over the bed, throwing my covers across the bedroom and into the open closet. My teeth gnaw at the inside of my mouth as I examine the room for the trillionth time in my life. I stand up and reach over, turning off the fan. The absence of its noise confuses my ears, because that fan is always on. It’s instantly hotter in the room because it’s nearly summer. I rummage through the desk and pull out a small notepad with a pen, jotting down a note.

I’ve decided that I’ve been here long enough and I’m going to try to make my way towards the hospital, since Lauren and the girls have done so much for me as it is. They will take me and, although I’m proclaimed dead and wanted for murder, I can’t seem to care as much as I do about leaving. I look out the window and, judging by the emptiness in the driveway, I know nobody is home. My breath is ragged as I leave the room hunched over. I’m wearing sweatpants that haven’t been washed in about a week and a ratty old white shirt that has only one stain on the sleeve. I go into Lauren’s room and search out a duffel bag, where I fold and pile all of my belongings in there. I’m calm as I do so, because I know nobody will be devastated by my being gone, although I can’t help but think about Abigail. I continue packing..

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” I’m startled and turn around to find Castiel standing in the doorway, looking around. He’s holding a bowl of soup. I turn back around and take my shirt off, shaking my head towards him. I catch us in the mirror, he’s now observing the bowl of soup and I’m cringing at the loss of muscles on my body.

“Yeah, probably.” I turn back around towards him and grab the bowl of soup, startling him. He looks down at his feet while I set the bowl on Lauren’s dresser. “You mind, uh, turning around?” He looks confused.

“Why?” I gesture towards my pants, and he shakes his head in confusion.

“Whatever,” I say, and grab a pair of jeans. I quickly change while Castiel moves towards the room.

“You have a lot of adrenaline that will wear out soon,” he tells me. I get angry because I know it’s true. Right now I’m basically out of breath, but I tell myself it’s because I’m not used to it yet.

“Well, I’m going to get as far as you can, and maybe someone will take me to a hospital. That’s what I’m going for, anyway.” Castiel doesn’t reply, so I assume our conversation is over. I drape the duffel bag over my shoulder and am about to leave when he speaks again.

“You don’t want to be here. You want to go back with your brother and travel the country again.” I nod, and turn around. We stare at each other for quite some time before I pull out a handgun and aim it at him. He looks unfazed.

“How did you know about my brother?” Castiel opens his mouth and then sighs. I remain where I am as he sits down, putting me more on edge.

“Lauren told me. She’s a very nice woman.” I realize the circumstances and put my gun away, staring at him only a second more before I leave the room. Walking down the stairs is a more challenging aspect, since I’m not used to all the adrenaline pumping in my mind and my heart so much that I stumble and lose my balance. By the time I do make it down and out the door, I can tell I’m about to drop. Castiel has followed me all the way, and he lingers behind as I walk in the rain.

“You gonna stalk me or take me to the hospital?” I yell at him behind me. He catches up quickly and I let him walk beside me.

“You’re much different than when you were laying in bed,” he points out. I noticed how his hands don’t quite go past the sleeves of his trenchcoat.

“When I was in bed I was an at peace hippie unless I faced reality. I was a sucker for the destiny of life,” I mocked, waving my hands in the air. He doesn’t respond. “Anyway, I’m about to collapse.” I manage to breathe out those last words before I lean against a store wall and drop the bag. Castiel tilts his head, a trait I find him doing a lot. “If I collapse, you’re taking me to the hospital. Not back to Lauren’s.” I wait for him to respond, and when he doesn’t I bang my head against the wall. “Dammit, Cas-!” I’m cut off by loss of oxygen before I can finish my sentence. He looks startled.

“Okay, Dean. I will take you to the hospital, I promise.” Satisfied by his answer, I run out of energy and my breathing becomes a lot more shallow. I point towards the duffel bag and Castiel picks it up, holding it out towards me. I shake my head and take another deep breath before I steady myself and begin walking again. Castiel carries the duffel bag beside him and we walk in silence.

By the time we reach the hospital, I have had another boost of adrenaline and walk in where I leave Castiel to talk to the receptionist while I rest, and when Castiel turns to me and gestures for me to walk towards him, I find myself regretting these decisions. The lady behind her desk smiles at me and says words I don’t quite bother listening to, I just grip onto Castiel’s arm because I’m beginning to feel like I’m about to faint. Details about this place are swimming in my mind and the last thing I see is Castiel’s concerned face before I fall asleep, once again.


End file.
